I Never Knew Myself (Now Preview Only)
by Melanie Rachel
Summary: Little Ellie Windham, goddaughter to Lady Matlock and cousin to the Fitzwilliams, is kidnapped just before her fifth birthday. When Fitzwilliam Darcy visits the Bingleys and meets twenty-year-old Elizabeth Bennet, he cannot figure out why she seems so familiar . . . (This is going to be a lightning post so I can get it out for you before it's up for publication-don't fall behind!)


**Author note: Now Preview Only-thanks for reading!**

We're going to go through this really fast, so I can get it posted before it's published and I have to take most of it down. I missed the deadline on _Headstrong_, which is now in KU, and I have to wait until it's out before I can do a post here for that one. I didn't want to do that with INKM

A few notes on _I Never Knew Myself_ or INKM.

This story does not, obviously, stick to canon, though you will recognize some similar events.

My take on the kidnapping trope is not a whodunnit. Sorry about that, if you wanted one. This is more a "what happens after" kind of story. I hope you like it!

These will be multiple-chapter posts. I'm beginning with the first three, because it's the set-up for the rest of the story. ODC meet as adults in Chapter 4.

Hope you enjoy!

**I Never Knew Myself**

**Chapter One**

_London, Spring 1788_

Thomas Bennet slammed his mug down on the wooden tabletop. "No more, Collins," he hissed. He shoved the ale aside—the drink was vile, the company worse. "I do not know why I even agreed to come." He shook his head, disgust written in his features. "An olive-branch, you say. To tie my daughter to your son before she has even begun to learn her letters? We are not the royal family, sir, seeking a political alliance." _Especially not to a family such as yours._

"It is a rational plan, Bennet," replied the man across from him, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap. Thomas peered at his cousin. Josiah Collins was tall and broad-shouldered. His body was built for a life of physical exertion, yet he was a clergyman, in every way a tight-fisted, unrelenting disciplinarian bent on punishment, not forgiveness. "A marriage contract makes everything easy. Your wife will never have a need to leave Longbourn."

A cold shiver ran up his spine. "Fanny is young," he responded warily. "We have a great deal of time. And should something happen to me, you should recall I have a brother." He stood. "We will have a son, or James and his family will inherit, and then all connection to you will be severed for good."

"Your brother is unmarried and stationed in India, a risky prospect at best." Collins stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Your wife is expecting but she may have another girl." His voice was a smooth as fine brandy. "For the right price I might be convinced to sell my place and break the entail."

Thomas placed his hat on his head. Fanny's condition was no secret in Meryton, which was why he had arranged to meet his cousin in London. It perturbed him that Collins knew. "You are not even the heir presumptive, Collins. You have no standing. There is no need to pay you anything." He paused and then added, with just a touch of bitterness, "More importantly, I must believe that the good Lord cannot mean for a man such as you ever to be master of Longbourn." He bowed his head slightly. "Good day, sir, and goodbye."

A fortnight later, Frances Bennet lost the child she carried when an illness struck down the entire household. As a result of a violent stomach ailment, the heir to Longbourn was born too early, and could not live. To heap misery upon misery, their daughter was lost as well.

He could never prove it, but Thomas was sure that somehow, his cousin Collins was to blame.

_Oakleigh Manor, Summer 1796_

Maria Windham shook her head at her husband's exasperation. "Where is the harm, dearest?" she asked. "We are in our own home." She stood and took her husband's warm hand. "She has been waiting more than a year to wear it and she was very excited to show it to Richard and Malcolm."

Daniel Windham pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Elizabeth already has too much freedom, Maria. Really, what will you say when she wishes to attend Eton with her brother? We cannot allow her to parade around the grounds like a boy."

"Oh Daniel," Maria replied, waving her hand in the air. "Do not fuss. She is four and, may I remind you, has learnt her stubbornness from her Papa. If you forbid her to wear it, you will have a battle. If you say nothing, she will change her clothes without coercion and, I daresay, will do so in less than an hour."

There was a chorus of young voices in the entryway, and Windham followed the noise to the door of the drawing room. His wife's Fitzwilliam cousins were visiting along with their cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy, whose mother had recently entered her confinement. They were all making ready to head out of doors. There was a great divide in age between the visitors and his children, but his nephew Malcolm, the future earl and the eldest at eighteen, did not see it as beneath his dignity to take his young cousins out to play. In fact, all three boys seemed to enjoy entertaining the lively Windham brood.

In the middle of all the excitement was his four-year-old sprite of a daughter, hopping up and down, dressed in an old, cut-down livery. It was a dark red with yellow piping and tiny tan breeches. The material from the old livery had largely been put to other purposes, but Robert had rescued this one from a rag bag somewhere. He had begged to have it as an army uniform and Maria had herself cut it down for him. His daughter was now preening in it as though it was a ballgown. He shook his head at her. _Breeches._ "Good day, _Miss_ Elizabeth," he said, sweeping her up into his arms, "or shall we call you Master Eli instead?"

Elizabeth scowled, her face a black cloud. "Ellie is my name, Papa. I am Ellie."

"Very well, my girl," Windham said, placing a quick kiss on his daughter's forehead. He gazed at her little face, a tiny copy of her mother's. Large dark eyes with long black eyelashes, a small pouty mouth, cherry red lips, a delicate little nose, long dark curls. He sighed, knowing it was hopeless. He could deny her nothing.

"Welcome home, Papa," she said sweetly, with a little lisp. "Do you see my cats?" She pulled at a silver button decorated with a lion's head and patted the jacket proudly. "Robbie gived it to me."

"I am too big for it now Papa," Robert said, his eyes dark and solemn. "I said Ellie could wear it."

Windham set his daughter down on the floor, catching, as he did so, the grins on the older boys' faces. He frowned and silently wished them luck with their own children when they were grown.

"Get on outside, then," he said gruffly. "And mind your cousins."

"Yes, Papa!" his son and daughter squealed. Robert took Elizabeth's hand and they dashed out the front door ahead of everyone else. Malcolm picked up little John, and they all proceeded outside, Richard and William carrying a few shuttlecocks and racquets, the children's nurse trailing behind at a discreet distance.

"What a troupe," Windham said fondly. He informed his wife that he would head upstairs to refresh himself after the long carriage ride. His negotiations in London had not gone well.

His wife examined him for a moment. "Are you upset, Daniel?" she asked.

He sighed. "No, Maria, I am not," he told her with a wry smile, "I am, in fact, a very happy man."

"Fitzy, make me a crown!" Elizabeth commanded, and Richard laughed.

"Yes, Your Highness," he replied drolly and offered his little cousin a deep bow. She giggled and clapped her hands. "However," he told her, "you must pick the flowers, for I do not know which ones you prefer."

This sent Elizabeth on a chase through the woodland that bordered the lawn on one side of the house. She darted in and out of the trees, returning to him to drop flowers in a haphazard little pile.

"This is a weed, Ellie," Richard called as she disappeared again, rolling a long green stem with small yellow flowers between his fingers. She did not respond, and he walked into the trees to find her.

"More flowers?" Elizabeth asked as she pushed an armful of wildflowers into his hands, some with roots trailing soil. He laughed and held out his hand.

"All right, we have enough. Come with me."

She skipped next to him until they were out onto the lawn, where she sat expectantly, singing softly to herself. Nearby, the other boys were playing shuttlecock. Every so often, one of them would hit it to Robert, who would swing wildly and sometimes connect.

Eventually, William walked over, Robert trailing behind him. "What is taking you so long, Richard?" he asked, grinning. "Flower crowns more difficult than you anticipated?"

Richard was nearly finished, his fingers fumbling with the delicate stems. "Anne taught me how to make these at Easter," he said, his eyes on his work. "I promised Ellie I would make her one, but I should have practiced more."

"Fitzy promised," Elizabeth said with a nod of her head.

"That was very sweet of you_, Fitzy_," called Malcolm with a laugh. "A sweet name for a sweet boy."

"No! _You_ do not call him that!" Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at her older cousin.

"Am I not allowed?" Malcolm asked, a warm smile lighting up his face.

"No," Elizabeth told him bluntly. "Only me. Or Fitzy will punch you. Right, Fitzy?"

"I am not afraid of him, Ellie," Malcolm said, still smiling.

Elizabeth stuck her bottom lip out in a pout, and even William smiled. "You be afraid," she insisted, balling up her tiny hands and placing them on her hips.

Richard's eyes met his brother's, flower crown still in his hands. "You might win that fight, Mal," he said calmly, "but you would know you had been in one. Leave off. You appear stupid, baiting a little girl."

"My apologies, Miss Windham," Malcolm told her and made her a grand bow.

Ellie smiled brightly, and, tipping her head to one side, chirped, "I forgive you."

"There!" Richard exclaimed suddenly. "Shall I put it in your hair, Princess?"

Elizabeth nodded several times. When she stilled, Richard placed a flimsy but colorful ring of flowers on her head.

"Well done, Princess Ellie," William told her. He turned to Robert. "Your sister is the very first princess ever to wear livery."

Elizabeth frowned. "Robbie said I could." Her brother nodded his support.

"And it is very nice," Richard assured her, giving William a dirty look.

William lifted his shoulders and let them fall, then crouched in front of her and pretended to examine the flowers in detail. "You know what would make this crown perfect?" he asked Elizabeth. She shook her head, curls bobbing. "If you had a princess dress to go with it."

Her eyes widened. Carefully, she lifted the crown from her head and placed it in Richard's outstretched hands. "Hold that," she ordered, before she flew back towards the house, little red leather shoes flashing bright in the late afternoon sun.

Fitzwilliam Darcy would never forget the sound of Richard's shout. It was loud, of course, and angry—but the fear that ripped through the single word sent a frozen shock to his very heart. _No_, Richard cried, and began to run. _No!_

He and Malcolm turned back toward the house to follow Richard's movement, and then they saw it, too. The nurse who had been following Elizabeth back to the house was holding young John tightly. She finally let out a shriek—but it was weak, and the woman seemed unable to move. Before her, headed their way but slightly to the west, was a masked man galloping away on a large, powerful black horse. He held the reins tightly in one hand.

His other arm was wrapped around a wriggling Elizabeth Windham.

Malcolm tossed Robert over his shoulder and raced back to the house as the little boy screamed for his sister. Richard was chasing the horse down the approach, but it was already past him and William knew it was hopeless. He whirled around to glare at the woods that covered this side of the property, remembered there was a stream and a field beyond. The road wound down for a half-mile before it turned to the south. If they cut across the field . . .

"Richard!" he yelled and darted away.

He dodged trees and roots, skidded down a soft bank and jumped over the stream, then clambered up the other side. Lungs burning, he burst through the woods into a brown field. He never stopped, his legs and arms pumping hard, breaths coming in quick gasps. As he reached the center of the field, heading toward the far end, he caught the rider out of the corner of his eye. He took a huge breath of air and increased his speed.

His feet hit the hard ground of the road just as the horse was racing past about six feet away. It shied and reared, and William took advantage of the moment to stretch his arms out and lunge. Time slowed as Elizabeth reached her small arms out to him—he nearly had one of her hands—and then she was jerked away roughly, and William grabbed nothing but air, bounced off the horse's rear flank and landed unceremoniously on his back in the dust of the road.

Before William could recover, they were out of his reach, hurtling down the road, leaving him on his knees and gulping for air. He was only barely aware that Richard had arrived and was bent over at the waist, huffing and puffing next to him. All he could hear were the horse's hooves beating against the dry ground as it drew farther away.

He felt Richard's hand on his shoulder and turned his face up to meet his cousin's tortured gaze.

He'd been _so close_. But Elizabeth was gone.

_Near Cambridge, Summer 1796_

The rain was falling heavily when Thomas Bennet knocked on the door of Matthias Tumbley. The man had been his tutor at Corpus Christi but, wishing to marry, had accepted first a curacy and then a living just outside of Cambridge. The door flew open to reveal a stout man with ruddy cheeks and average height, not much older than Bennet himself.

"There you are, Thomas! Come in out of the rain," he cried, putting one hand on Bennet's shoulder and pulling him inside. "Come in, come in."

As he shed his outerwear, Bennet caught a glimpse himself in the mirror that hung in the hall. He had always been thin. His hair was still dark but had begun to recede, and his troubles were clearly marked in the lines on his face. He appeared much older than he was. He felt it, too.

Tumbley led him to a small but comfortable sitting room in the back of the house, where the windows overlooked a tidy garden. Everything in the house was beauty and utility combined. The flowers and plants were meant for the stillroom, the scent of freshly cut roses perfumed the air, and just beyond, there were rows of what he suspected were vegetables. He thought he spied carrot tops, onions, and potatoes. Several cherry and pear trees lined the back wall.

"Ah," Tumbley said, handing Bennet a drink. "I see you admire our little farm." He smiled fondly. "My wife and I tend it together and have passed many happy hours there." He sat next to Bennet and stretched his feet out toward the fire. "So now you will tell me what brings you all this way to visit in such dreadful weather, my friend." It was not a question.

"I hardly know where to begin," Bennet said, staring into his glass of wine. "I am tempted to do something I know to be wrong, Matthias, but I can see no other way. Is it sinful to do the wrong thing for the right reason?"

The question hung in the air for a time before Tumbley leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I think you are not here for a philosophical discussion, Thomas. You will have to tell me what precisely has brought you to me today."

Bennet grimaced. "My wife and children bring me here."

"Ah yes, you mentioned Fanny was expecting." Tumbley's expression did not change.

He sipped his wine. "She had such a difficult time with Jane we did not think she would be able to have another."

Tumbley nodded. "A blessing, then."

Bennet closed his eyes. "Matthias, I prayed for a boy. Begged for a boy. Not only to secure the Bennet line at Longbourn, but for the safety of my family. Collins remains obsessed with inheriting though he is not the heir presumptive. We have managed to keep him away. Although now . . ." he withdrew a letter from his coat pocket and proffered it to Tumbley.

As his friend read the missive, his lips pressed together in a hard line. "As far as you know, then, James is missing. He has not been killed. It takes so long to receive letters from India that he might already be safely back with his regiment." Tumbley handed the letter back. "Has he married?"

Bennet took the letter and shook his head. "I do not know. Neither of us are particularly regular correspondents, though James certainly has the better excuse." He sat. "My brother left home when he was eighteen and has never returned. I have buried both our parents and two of my children since that day. It seems a lifetime. And last week . . . " he stumbled over his words and came to a stop.

"Last week . . ." Tumbley prompted.

"Fanny had a girl," Bennet replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know it is a blessing, Matthias, I do see that, but it was so difficult with Jane. It is unlikely Fanny shall fall with child again. After five years—well, we were shocked to learn we were again expecting." He sighed heavily. "Fanny was certain it was a sign that this child would be our heir. We prayed for a boy, but God did not answer us."

Tumbley sighed and set down his glass. "He did answer you, Thomas. He said no."

"_Why_?" Bennet cried, standing abruptly and surprising himself with the bitterness he heard in the word. "Collins is a _monster_, Matthias. He claims to be a man of God, but he is deeply avaricious, even evil. How can I leave my family at the mercy of that man?"

He felt a hand on his arm. "You do not _need_ to leave them at his mercy, Thomas," Tumbley replied, his face a mask of confusion. "You earn a great deal of money on that estate of yours. If Collins really is to inherit, you must save against that day so that they will be able to live well and out of his reach."

Bennet felt a wave of shame crest over him. _Matthias has created abundance from little. We squander our abundance without thought._ "We have never been able to save," Bennet muttered. "Fanny spends to make herself feel better, but there are not enough funds in the world for that."

"Come," Tumbley said, standing to join him. "Let us share a meal with Sarah before you head back to the city. You will be surprised at how it has grown since you were a young man here."

"Do you not wish to hear my question, Matthias?" Bennet inquired.

"If it is whether or not you ought to do something to defeat the entail," Tumbley replied, "I do not think you need to hear my reply. You know what is right." He opened the door. "You would not be my friend otherwise."

Thomas Bennet thought long and hard about Matthias' advice as he watched the bedraggled, barefoot boy tucked into a ball on the backward-facing bench of the carriage. He was a comely little fellow, dressed in some sort of worn livery with impossibly tiny breeches. He was young enough that he still had his curls. It lifted Bennet's heart and made him smile, though as he recalled Matthias' advice he also felt the first stirrings of guilt. This feeling was not enough, however, to make him wish to turn the horses around and return to Cambridge.

"You will have a good life with us," he said to the boy's sleeping form. "I promise you that much."

**Chapter Two**

_Longbourn, Summer 1796_

Thomas Bennet poured himself a glass of wine and toasted his fortune. He had entered Longbourn carrying the still sleeping boy in his arms, explaining in a hushed whisper to his wife and a few members of his staff that this was his brother's child, sent to them for safekeeping. Fanny had seen the advantage at once. Instead of caviling, as he had feared she might, she merely kissed him on the cheek and returned to her chamber. The good Lord had smiled upon them, and his family was safe.

When, not thirty minutes later, the maid returned to ask whether it would be suitable to have some of Miss Bennet's old dresses fitted for the newcomer, he was baffled. When the maid had said enough that he understood that the boy was a girl, his hands began to shake. He tucked them behind his back and ordered the maid to do what was required.

After he was sure the servant had gone, he staggered to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. How could everything have gone so wrong?

He knew, of course he did. He had eschewed Matthias' good advice and had reaped his reward. It would be folly to try to send the girl away now—he had announced her as his brother's child.

It would not do in any case. He recognized what had happened. He had chosen the wrong course and this girl was to be his penance, a constant reminder of his folly. He shook his head and chuckled softly, trying to ignore the sorrow in the laugh. He ought to have known—Matthias had attempted to warn him. One did not sport with God and come away the victor.

"The hubris," he whispered to himself in the empty room. He lifted his wine-glass in a toast. "Well-played, Lord."

_Oakleigh Manor, Summer 1796_  
Daniel Windham sat alone in his study and stared at the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. He had done everything he could to recover his little girl. His men had followed the horseman within the hour, but she was gone. They suspected the man who had abducted little Miss Windham had given her to someone in a carriage or possibly a wagon.

The door creaked as it opened.

"Windham?"

It was his brother, the earl. Matlock's brother Darcy followed him into the room. Daniel grimaced. Matlock remained because their wives were sisters. Elizabeth had in fact been named for Matlock's wife, her godmother. Darcy was a friend, but not family. He had a recovering wife and a new babe of his own at home; he should not linger here under some honorable but unnecessary sense of obligation.

He forced himself to his feet. "Gentlemen, I must face facts," he said. He felt ill and grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. "Elizabeth is gone. The men who took her have their money, but she has not been returned. I should be a fool to continue to believe she has not been . . . not been . . ." His voice faltered. He could not bring himself to say the words. Certainly, his daughter was gone. Most likely she had been killed in short order, perhaps even before the ransom demand was sent. What care would such men have for a small child who would only slow them down?

"They might at least have told us where to find her," he said quietly. "She should be home with us."

Darcy shifted uncomfortably. "Windham, have you thought more on who might have wished you ill?"

He nodded. "I think it most likely it was Gravesend. He believes his father left him the timber on the north side of the estate. He claims it is on his land, despite the boundary maps showing it is on mine. I kept his men from harvesting the oaks." He passed a hand across his face. "The ransom was very near the value of the property." He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. "Yet he has vehemently denied it and I have no proof."

Matlock nodded. "You have a disagreement with your cousin Holloway as well?"

"He wanted my investment in the canal but he wanted too much. It will take years to see any returns." He sat heavily. "It will run near to him, at Leicester."

"Anyone else?"

"Parnell. Wanted me to work on my cousin William over the enclosure of Whitting Commons and was bitter when I declined." Windham leaned back, agitated. "I should just have written the damn letter."

He removed a paper from his desk and held it out. He met Matlock's eye. "This is a list of five men who might have been involved, but it might be someone I do not even know. I am often asked whether I am the William Windham who serves in the House of Lords, and I am not always believed when I say that I am not."

Matlock frowned. "William has many enemies in Parliament."

He felt numb. "I know."

_Longbourn, Autumn 1796_

Elizabeth sat at breakfast longer than was her wont. The day was sunny and warm for the time of year, and Aunt Bennet eventually insisted they go out of doors to relieve her nerves.

The girls moved out beyond the garden and the home farm to the stream. Jane held Mary's little hand, and Elizabeth wondered why there was no nurse for Mary. John had one, and she said as much.

Jane gave her a reproving look. "Papa says that John must be a boy you met on the ship. Was he nice?"

Elizabeth's lips drew down in a scowl. "He is my brother."

Jane's brows pinched together. "Did you not say that Robbie was your brother?"

"He is." Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. "They both are."

Jane smiled. "I see," she said in a mild voice that made Elizabeth want to stamp her feet. She hoisted herself up on a boulder and gazed out on the water unhappily. She kicked her heels against the rock, first one, then the other.

"You will ruin your shoes," Jane warned. "Mama will be upset."

Elizabeth gazed unhappily at her dull brown shoes. The dragon man had taken her pretty red ones. She sighed noisily and stopped swinging her legs. She dropped to the ground and strolled to the water's edge. She plucked a long piece of grass and placed it on the water, watching as it floated away.

At home, she would have been invited to eat in the breakfast room instead of the nursery. Papa might even carry her downstairs, and there would be a little cake on her plate. Mama would have sung a song just for her. Robbie would be especially nice to her all day long. But that was not much of a gift. Robbie was always nice to her.

Did Uncle Bennet even know it was her birthday? Papa should have told him. But Papa was in India, wherever that was. And Uncle Bennet did not know about Mama or Robbie or John or Fitzy or Mal or even Willum. Two fat tears ran hot over her cheeks, and she rubbed at them with the back of her hand. She wanted to go home, but they all thought she was telling a story. Everyone was kind to her here, but nobody ever listened.

_Oakleigh Manor, Autumn 1796_

"When is Ellie coming home, Mama?" Robert asked, not for the first time. Maria stroked his hair.

"I do not know, darling."

Maria Windham tucked her boys in and kissed each goodnight, taking a final glance back at them before the nurse extinguished the candles.

In the aftermath of her daughter's loss, Maria had spent her nights in the nursery, away from her husband. One night, perhaps a month after the search for Elizabeth had ceased, she apologized to Daniel. In return, he confessed his belief that she did not wish to remain in the bed of a man who had failed to protect their children. It had taken a great deal of persuasion on her part to convince him that she did not blame him but rather could not bear to be so far away from her babies. To comfort her, he had suggested moving the nursery to the same floor as their chambers, and she had gratefully agreed.

They were still finding their way back to one another.

Unlike her husband, Maria had not given up hope that her daughter lived. She refused to accept condolence calls. She refused to erect a stone in the churchyard. She refused to accept any hint that her child had been taken from them in a permanent way. She continued to purchase things Elizabeth might need when she returned. She spoke to her boys about their sister as a living little girl out in the world. It pained Daniel, she knew, but in this she could not oblige him. Elizabeth was alive. For if her daughter had passed from this world to the next, she would have felt it. She was Elizabeth's mother. She would have known.

_Kent, January 1797_

"Missing," the Rev. Collins sneered, reading a letter from his solicitor. "James Bennet is dead. Just as I said it would be. Dead, but Bennet will not admit it."

His eleven-year-old son William was silently observing him from the other end of the table. The boy swallowed hard and blinked rapidly when their eyes met. Josiah did not understand why the boy was always so nervous. _He_ had never been nervous in his life. Even the disaster of his exams at university, marked harshly by biased tutors, had not injured his self-confidence.

He stared steadily at his son. The boy was young yet, but so far had proven a disappointment. Large for his age, but rather slow-witted. Well. He would have to take young William in hand.

"We are destined for better things than a parsonage, boy," he said, hitting the table with the side of his fist, "and no Bennet will keep us from it."

_Oakleigh Manor, November 1798_

Daniel Windham paced in the hallway outside his wife's chambers, listening to her cries. She had been laboring for eighteen hours. Elizabeth's birth had taken longer.

Elizabeth. The very name was a shot to his heart. Two years and more, yet the pain had not abated. She would have been six now, and eagerly awaiting a sister, he was sure of it.

He both hoped and feared that this child would be a girl—hoped it might ease Maria's pain somewhat to have another girl to raise, feared that he would forever be seeing her sister in another pair of trusting eyes. Perhaps it would be better if the baby was a boy.

Maria kept the doll Elizabeth had always slept with on the shelf in the nursery when he would rather have put it away. He knew he would never forget his second child, but to his shame, he wished that he could.

When at last his sister emerged to tell him that Maria and the babe were well, he felt the familiar relief overtake him and he stepped towards the door. Maria was waiting for him. He sat beside her on the bed and leaned in to kiss her wan cheek.

"Mercy," she whispered in his ear. "Her name is Mercy."

_Longbourn, Winter 1798_

Elizabeth sat up suddenly. The bedclothes fell to her waist, and she grabbed them up again. Two men had been arguing, one telling the other to leave and then disappearing. The remaining man's face, red with anger, had hovered over her. He was angry with her for running away and forcing them to stop. He kept hitting her as he screamed something she did not understand. Rough hands ripped her shoes and stockings off. She curled her feet beneath her. She waited for her heart to stop racing and blinked the dream away.

It was very cold, and she did not like to sleep alone. Robbie and John were not in the nursery here, only Mary, who was a baby. Uncle Bennet had said she might sleep with Jane instead. It was warmer than sleeping alone.

"Lizzy?" Jane asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes. "What is it?"

"I miss my Mama and Papa and Robbie," Elizabeth said stoutly. She even missed John, though he was too little to play with her. "I want to go home."

Jane yawned. "You cannot return to India, Lizzy," she said patiently. "It is too far." She closed her eyes.

Elizabeth scratched her ear. Jane always said that. But was she from India? Christopher Lucas had asked about life on a ship, and she was sure she had never been on one. Uncle Bennet said she had, though.

"There were trees and a big house," she said, willing the pictures not to float away. "Fitzy made me a flower crown." She pursed her lips. "Willum said I could be a princess, but a bad knight took me away and a dragon man hurt me." She shivered.

Next to her, she heard Jane's soft, slow breathing.

Nobody ever believed her when she talked about Mama and Papa and Robbie. She still spoke about Fitzy who protected her and Willum who had reached for her and even Mal who was very tall and sometimes let her ride on his shoulders. They laughed when she talked about the bad knight on a black horse and the dragon whose face was so red. Sometimes they patted her on the head.

Elizabeth laid back on her pillows and curled around Jane's warm body.

"They _are_ real," she whispered as she closed her eyes. "They _are_."

_Near Leicester, Autumn 1799_

"I see the canal is doing well, cousin," Daniel Windham acknowledged as they walked to the stables on Hiram Holloway's property. "Is it bringing any dividends?"

Holloway scratched his protruding stomach and shook his head. "It will eventually, but the debt was deep by the time it was complete and that shall have to be cleared first. You were wise not to invest."

Robert walked behind them as they talked. All his father and Mr. Holloway had done since they arrived was discuss business. He did not like Mr. Holloway—he always laughed too hard at Papa's jokes and he smelled bad. There was another fizzing sound and foul air escaping Mr. Holloway's breeches. Robert wrinkled his nose. Mama had warned him not to laugh, but Mr. Holloway broke wind in their company over and over—how was he not supposed to laugh? He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped, hoping he had not been found out.

His cousin Malcolm pulled a face. Robert bit back the laughter rising in his throat and elbowed his grown-up cousin.

"I do not wish to be called to accounts with Papa," he whispered.

Malcolm patted him on the back and nodded. Robert was glad his cousin the viscount was joining them on their business to London. He had returned home from Cambridge over the summer and had visited Oakleigh shortly after to see how they all got on. He and Papa were to stay with the Earl and Countess, who were still in London. They would be in town for a fortnight and then they would all travel back to Derbyshire together. It would be his first trip to town and the privilege had come with a great many rules to follow.

Malcolm joined the other men, leaving Robert standing behind them to entertain himself. A young girl was standing by a slightly older stable-boy, handing him what was likely his noonday meal. He was distracted by the red leather shoes she was wearing. Ellie had owned a pair just like them, and his mind wandered to his missing sister. They never talked about her anymore, though he often caught his mother going into the room she had decorated in anticipation of Ellie's return. She would be eight now, he thought.

The men were deep into a conversation in which Robert had no interest. He kept sending glances over in the girl's direction. She was sitting with her brother now. As he continued to consider the situation, it seemed strange that a girl whose brother was a stable-boy would own such a pair of shoes. They really did look just like Ellie's.

"Papa," he finally said, "that girl, over there," he motioned with his head. "Her shoes . . ."

At first, his father was annoyed at the interruption, but when he saw what the girl was wearing, he froze in place. Malcolm turned just after his father and Robert heard shallow, sharp intake of breath.

"Ellie was wearing a pair just like those when . . ." He paused, knowing his father would not wish to be reminded, but thought he should explain. "I remember them because she spilled a little ink on the toe of one when I was trying to teach her to write that morning." Robert's lips quirked up just a bit. "She was upset, but I told her it looked like a star, and that made her happy."

He was not sure his father had heard him. Mr. Holloway was saying something disparaging and trying to leave, but Malcolm held him tightly by the arm. Robert was impressed—he had not realized his cousin was so strong. His face turned to his father's. Papa met his gaze steadily, then nudged him forward. Together, they approached the girl.

"What pretty shoes," his father said gently, crouching down before her. "May I see them?"

The girl, small and thin with yellow braids, silently stuck out her feet.

On the toe of the right shoe was a tiny starburst of black ink. His father touched it lightly with the tip of his finger.

"Where did you find these shoes, boy?" his father asked the stable-boy, still staring at the shoes.

The boy, no older than Robert himself, coughed and shifted, anxious. "In the old gatekeeper's cottage. By the road, sir."

His father's lips pressed together before he asked, "On the property here?"

"Yes sir," replied the boy, his face pale beneath a scattering of freckles. "The place was all dirty and musty, but these shoes was tossed under the bed and covered in dust. I just thought my sister . . ."

"You are not in trouble," Papa reassured him, glancing up at last. "I will have new shoes made for your sister, but I will need to take these with me," he said hoarsely. "They belonged to my daughter, you see, and her mother will want them back."

The boy nodded, his eyes wide and fearful.

His father straightened and slowly turned back to face Mr. Holloway. Papa's face was as cold as Robert had ever seen it, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched into fists. In a voice that was almost eerily calm, he asked, "Young man, does your sister have an old pair of shoes she can wear for now?"

"Yes sir," was the response. "Just a bit small, but she can wear 'em."

"Robert," his father said, a brittle smile on his face. "Will you walk these two back home and retrieve Ellie's shoes?" Robbie thought his father might be ill, for his face was very pale, but he recovered quickly. "We will stop in at the cobbler's on the way home and pay for a new pair to be made for the young miss. Tell her mother to take her when they are next in the village."

He nodded. The stable boy grabbed his sister by the hand and led Robert down a path beyond the stables. They had only taken a few steps when Robert heard an agonized shout and some muffled thumps. He asked the other two to wait, and hurried back towards the noise, concealing himself behind a hedge twenty feet away.

Malcolm had Holloway's arms pinned behind him. "Where is my daughter, you traitorous _bastard_?" Papa nearly howled as he rammed a fist into Holloway's stomach and the man doubled over. "Where is she?"

Holloway caught his breath enough to cry out, "I swear, I do not know!"

Papa hit Mr. Holloway again, this time in the face. There was blood on his hand when he pulled it away. Robert's fingers tingled and an icy cold began to spread through his chest. _Mr Holloway took Ellie?_

"Where is she, Hiram?" his father shouted, grabbing Mr. Holloway's lapel in one hand and throwing a downward punch with the other. "Where?"

Mr. Holloway was sobbing, and Robert grimaced at the exhibition. Men should not cry. Not ever. "She was supposed to be left with your solicitor in London," Mr. Holloway choked out, "but they never arrived! I swear, it was just the money, it should only have been a week! I never meant . . ."

Malcolm hauled the man up out of the dirt just as Papa whipped his booted foot between Holloway's legs. The man shrieked and collapsed. Malcolm let him fall, and Mr. Holloway lay still in the dust and dried horse droppings, curled up like a dog before a fire.

Malcolm looked up suddenly and met Robert's eyes. His cousin's face was grim and drawn. He shook his head once and jerked his chin upward. Robert knew he was being told to leave. Reluctantly, he did.

_Bombay, January 1800_

Dear Thomas,

If you have heard reports of my demise you must now disregard them. I am alive and at last back with my regiment. Fortunately, neither you nor I send many  
letters, father's influence, I fear. It has made reviewing my correspondence easier.

The story of my capture and the number of captors through whose lands I have passed will require more time to tell than I currently possess. The conclusion of the sad business was a rather brilliant lie-I claimed to belong to the Bene Israel caste. I was sent to the Gate of Mercy Temple in Bombay and released to two Englishmen, Samuel and Issac Ezekial. I would ask that you add them to your prayers, Thomas. Without the story of how they had survived their own capture and their willingness to affirm my tale, the British victory over Mysore would have made little difference to me, and you would no longer have your spare. As it is, you need not fear that Collins will inherit.

Although this comes several years too late, you are of course encouraged to make free with my name to secure your young charge a favorable future. There is no need for an apology to me. I no longer care for ridiculous English notions of propriety. I am not married, and as I expect that you shall live to a ripe old age, there is no need for me to return to England. To tell the truth, in all the color and heat and humanity of India it is sometimes difficult to believe that a cool, green place like England even exists.

I am sorry to end with a request for a favor of my own, Thomas, but needs must. My horse is long gone, and it is damned difficult to find another as fine. I am owed my back pay, but knowing the army as I do, it might be years before I see a farthing. I do not know how you fare at Longbourn, brother, but I have purchased a mount on the line of credit Father established for me and I hope you will honor it.

I have other correspondence to complete, but I will write again when I have information about where we are to be posted. Until then, I am your dutiful brother,

Cpt. J. Bennet, 19th Light Dragoons

**Chapter Three**

_Portsmouth, May 1800_

Malcolm stood silently beside his father and uncle as the _Prometheus_ pulled out into the open water, headed for Botany Bay. Aboard it was Hiram Holloway.

It was a source of deep resentment for the young viscount that Holloway was not on the ship because he had paid to have a small girl abducted from her family, nor was he convicted for her disappearance and presumed death. Even extortion had not stood, as Holloway had not actually written the ransom letter. He had been charged, in the end, with the only thing that could be proven—that he had kept the ransom and yet not returned Ellie Windham to her family. This, the judge determined, made him a fraudster and a thief. He had no doubt that even these charges would not have stood had the girl's uncle not been an earl.

_A thief_. Holloway certainly was that. He had taken what he had no right to claim, he had stolen their peace. He had denied them the lives they ought to have had, little Ellie most of all. Malcolm had expected the man to hang. He needed the man to hang. That Holloway lived kept his rage burning low but hot. He could not help but feel he had failed his little cousin a second time.

Malcolm heard a strangled sound to his left, and he was reminded that he was not the only one still grieving.

"Let us away," his father said quietly, moving to aid his distraught brother. Malcolm took up his position on Uncle Windham's other side, and they made their way back to the carriage that was to take them all home to Derbyshire.

_Oakleigh Manor, September 1805_

Robert Windham stood before a large family portrait in the gallery. It was a lie, but a pleasant one. The work had been commissioned before Ellie had been taken from them, and her sitting had been completed. After . . . after, it had been left unfinished in London. When Mercy was born, his mother had demanded that the portrait be finished. She had the babe painted into the scene, safe in her mother's arms. She said that she wanted a portrait of her entire family. Now she had one.

Robert missed Ellie. He thought of her nearly every day. Indeed, it was impossible to forget her.

Her presence was everywhere at Oakleigh. Her wooden doll, complete with silk dress, shift, stays, and tiny brocade slippers still sat on a shelf in the nursery next to the red leather shoes that had led to the arrest of Mr. Holloway. Colorful dresses hung in a prettily decorated room down the hall from his own, a relic of Ellie's fifth birthday when his mother had decided that she would return. He had not understood it then—was not Ellie with God? His father had finally explained that it was a symptom of his mother's grief and that they must all be especially kind to her. Mr. Holloway's insistence that he had not killed his cousin's child had only increased Mama's certainty that Ellie might yet live.

There was a clear boundary at Oakleigh between _before_ and _after_. Before Ellie was taken, they were all happy. Father had business, and it could be unpleasant, but he was not the obsessively suspicious man he had become. Before, Robert knew, there had been plans for him to attend Eton, but after, neither he nor John had been sent away to school. Instead, they had tutors to prepare them for university. A team of footmen followed them everywhere they went when they left the house now, despite the constant lessons both boys had in shooting and swordplay. Robert was certain that the moment he was old enough his father would take him to Gentleman Jackson's Bond Street home to learn to use his fists.

Mercy was beloved by her mother, but in his opinion, she was no replacement for her intrepid older sister. Even in her looks she took after the Windham side of the family, unlike Ellie who had been a copy of their mother. Mercy was fussy and cosseted by everyone on the estate whereas even at four, Ellie had been independent and daring. Their parents spoiled the six-year-old with all the things they could no longer give her older sister, and Robert felt as though only he could see the damage it was doing. Mercy was lazy, selfish, and a tell-tale, never willing to lift a finger to do a thing if she could command someone else to do it for her.

"You should make your apologies to your sister," he heard his father say from behind him.

It was more than enough. He would not bow to this tiny tyrant. "I have none to make, sir."

"You shouted at her," was the calm response.

"She went into the schoolroom where she is not allowed and poured ink over an entire week's worth of my lessons, father. It is not the first time she has destroyed things that are mine." A sketch of John had been burnt, his old toy soldiers jammed into crevices in the library, currents and syllabub ground into his favorite jacket. He balled his hands into fists. "She does it intentionally, because she knows you will never censure her." He did not look at his father. "I respect you sir, but I have no apologies to offer."

His father sighed. "She says it was an accident, son. I shall be sure that Mr. Putnam knows that your work was completed on time, but you should not have shouted."

Ellie would have simply shouted back. No, she would not have destroyed his work in the first place. He recalled Elizabeth's temper very well—she had used it to stand up for him when he was in trouble or being teased. "Yet I shall still have a week's work to do again. It is not possible to accidentally destroy so much work, father. Mercy has not spoken the truth."

His father stepped between Robert and the portrait, but he could still see Elizabeth standing next to his six-year-old self. "Are you accusing your sister of prevarication?" his father asked, his expression thunderous.

Robert frowned, his mood matching his father's face. "It is not an accusation," he replied. "It is a fact. She tells the most outrageous lies and you and mother feed her sweets for it." He stared at Ellie's likeness. "Mercy is not Elizabeth, sir."

He felt the back of his father's hand across his cheek without ever seeing it swing. He refused to acknowledge the pain blooming from his jaw to his nose.

"Never say such a thing again," his father said in a voice that echoed off the walls.

Robert straightened his shoulders and spoke at a lower volume. _He _would not lose his composure. "I will not apologize, sir. If you simply observe her behavior, how she treats the staff, you will see she has learnt to be a monster."

His father's hand stretched back—Robert was ready this time, but simply turned his face. "Perhaps you should like to strike the other cheek this time, sir." He could hear the acrimony in his words. "I am certain Mercy will take great satisfaction in having put me in Dutch with you. It was her purpose, after all."

The hand hovered and then dropped. "You will take dinner in your rooms tonight."

Robert nodded stiffly. "Very good, sir."

His father walked away, heels beating a sharp staccato against the floor, and Robert was left alone with the family portrait. His cheek ached, but he refused to lift a hand to it.

"I wish you were here, Ellie," he said quietly. "Everything would be better if you were here."

_Longbourn, December 1805_

Elizabeth scaled the ancient oak marking the northeastern boundary between Longbourn and Netherfield. She loved this tree, its trunk split from an old lightning strike—it had left a gap in the bark as the tree healed that offered an easy path up to its massive branches. Despite the bite in the air, she climbed high in the branches until she felt safe.

She withdrew _A Modern Griselda_ from the pocket Mrs. Gardiner had sewn for her and tucked her hands up into her sleeves. The Gardiners were Jane and Mary's relations, not hers, but they had both been just as kind to her as to their nieces. Elizabeth thought Mrs. Gardiner might even like her best of all.

She should not complain, she reminded herself. A girl in her situation ought to be grateful. Uncle Bennet might be a distant man, but he was a kind one. The novel she held was a St. Nicholas' Day gift from him. _He_ had never made her feel as though she did not belong. In fact, he insisted his girls, "all three of them," would have reasonable dowries, and she was aware that he spent much of his time working to secure their futures.

Uncle Bennet labored diligently with his steward to improve yields and increase the estate's profits, too. He had encouraged them all to plan and tend gardens that would be both ornamental and useful, and, like so many other families, they were careful to purchase quality fabric but then remake their dresses and reuse the material until it was quite worn through.

He subscribed to the lending library for them, but had built a good home library as well, though he seldom bought a book new. Elizabeth spent most of her morning hours reading about science, politics, and the modern world. She read about India, but never felt any connection to it. She read a little about agriculture, though she had to admit it was not as compelling to her as an essay on the war with France. She and her cousins learned arithmetic and how to keep an account book and the duties the landed gentry owed to those in their care. Uncle Bennet hired masters when there was something special they wished to study.

Unfortunately, all the time he spent working on the estate allowed Aunt Bennet ample time to complain. She groused about the miserly nature of her husband, how he restricted her pin money, how she had to answer to him for the way the household accounts were spent. She grumbled about the cost of the masters, too, reasoning that if she must economize, so ought the girls.

Elizabeth tried to read her book, but her bottom was cold. She rubbed her arms and blew hot air into her cupped hands.

"A man will not want a wife who knows more than him." Aunt Bennet said this to them all, but Elizabeth was keenly aware that the declaration was intended for her. Thus, she made no requests of her own, but joined Jane and Mary in their pursuits. That was how she learned to speak French and play the pianoforte. Aunt Bennet taught them needlework and Elizabeth was proficient enough to make lovely little dresses for the tenants' children. Jane was the best of them at embroidery, but Elizabeth and Mary fared better with music. Elizabeth also enjoyed singing and would have liked to learn Italian, but they were still paying the French and pianoforte master. Jane would have asked for her, but Elizabeth did not want to create strife between her eldest cousin and her aunt.

Aunt Bennet had mostly given up trying to wheedle her husband out of additional funds, but, constrained by her own strict budget, begrudged anything spent on Elizabeth, particularly saving for her dowry. It was yet another discussion on money that had Elizabeth out in the old oak when the temperature was so cold.

"She could easily wear Jane's old things, Mr. Bennet," Aunt Bennet had complained at the breakfast table that morning.

"She does, when the clothing is still fit to be worn, Mrs. Bennet," had been her uncle's tired reply. He lowered the newspaper he was reading. "As Mary wears the things Elizabeth has outgrown." He sipped his coffee.

"You intentionally misunderstand me, Mr. Bennet," Aunt Bennet had replied, then glared angrily at Elizabeth, who tried to shrink down in her chair. "I could use the additional funds for any number of things. Jane is so handsome and Mary already so accomplished! They might make exceptional marriages with a little extra in their dowries." She shook her head grimly. "It is too much, Mr. Bennet—it is not as if she is ours."

Elizabeth could feel her cheeks heating. Her father never wrote and, as Aunt Bennet was fond of pointing out, never sent money. Jane had clasped her hand beneath the table, giving it a brief squeeze. Mary had blinked owlishly and said, "Of course she is ours, Mama. She is a Bennet, just like Jane and me."

"She is _not_ just like you and your sister, Mary," Aunt Bennet had snapped. "She is the daughter of the _second_ son."

"A gentleman now honorably serving his country in India, Mrs. Bennet," Uncle Bennet had responded, folding his newspaper over and slapping the table with it. "Who, when I am gone, will be the master of Longbourn. You would do well to remember that."

Aunt Bennet had eaten quietly for a few minutes, and Elizabeth thought this latest argument had been settled. Then her aunt set down her cutlery and asked, "Do we even know that he still lives?"

Elizabeth had excused herself and nearly flown out the front door. First, she had sought out Guinevere in the stables, speaking softly to the mare and feeding her the carrot Mrs. Hill always set aside for her. Then she had made for her tree.

She had been reading for nearly an hour. Her fingers and toes had grown numb with the cold when she decided she must return to the house. She moved down to the lower branches and spied Mary standing below, craning her neck, searching for her.

"Mary," she called. "What are you doing here? You should be inside."

"I thought you might be cold," Mary said, lifting her hands. Elizabeth's gray wool cape was draped over them.

"Oh, Mary," cried Elizabeth, feeling rather wretched. Mary was small for a ten-year-old, and she never walked this far out on her own. "It is too much for you to carry that all this way." She made her way down the tree as quickly as possible until she stood before her youngest cousin and removed the cape from her hands. She kissed the slight girl on the forehead. "You are so kind, Mary," she said, "I am grateful—it is dreadfully cold out." She swung the cape over her shoulders and pulled it around her, sighing with relief.

Mary pulled her own red cape tighter around her. "Shall we walk back?" she asked.

Elizabeth smiled and patted her pocket to confirm her book had not fallen out during her descent. "Of course."

Mary stepped onto the well-trod path.

"How did you know where to find me?" Elizabeth asked.

Mary reached back to take her hand. "You always visit Gwenny or come here when you are sad."

"I am not sad very often, Mary," she reassured the girl, placing her arm around Mary's shoulders. "How could I be when I have you?"

_Arcot, August 1806_

Dear Thomas,

I am certain you are surprised to hear from me so soon after our annual exchange, but there is cause. The regiment is leaving India, brother. By the end of the month, we shall be on our way to England, and I can only hope this letter reaches home before I do.

As you are aware, I never had a thought of returning, but the idea has become a welcome one. I have managed to put by a little money over the years, and with the sale of my commission, I shall be quite comfortable. I may even search for a wife, if there is a gentlewoman in all of England who will have me.

These events are fortuitous for me, Thomas, but I have not forgotten that my presence in England may have consequences for your ward. You need not worry over the future of your family. Should the worst happen, your wife and all the girls will have a home at Longbourn so long as they have a need. However, I will not behave as the young lady's father. For many reasons I expect I need not enumerate, it is best she remain at Longbourn.

The voyage will be a long one, six months around the Horn, and I shall be busy with the regiment for several months after our return. You have time to make plans. Send word to me when we are again in England instructing me how you wish to proceed, but Thomas—if you have not already explained her origins, you should tell the girl the truth. She deserves to know.

May God bless you and yours, Thomas.

_Lt. Colonel J. Bennet, 19__th__ Light Dragoons_

_Longbourn, May 1807_

"I am not a Bennet?" The words seemed to echo against the walls of her uncle's study and Elizabeth nearly fell into the nearest chair. She took a deep breath and turned to face him. "Why have you told everyone that I am? Why did you tell _me_ that I am?"

Uncle Bennet sighed heavily and sat next to her. He tipped his head back and laid a hand over his eyes. "I wished to protect you, my girl. I still do."

"You might at least have told me," she insisted. "I would have preferred the truth, Uncle." She paused at the title. "Should I even call you that?"

He turned his gaze to her and handed her a letter. "Nothing will change, Elizabeth. My brother James and I are the only ones who know. You will remain here with us. We will simply explain that your father is still in the military, looking for a new wife, and wishes for you to remain with us. That is all I wished you to know."

Elizabeth's mind was awhirl as she read the letter from the man she had always been told was her father. _He is not a neglectful parent, he is a good man who has been helping me. _She stared at the carpet and wondered if she even had a father. What she asked aloud was, "Aunt Bennet does not know?"

Her uncle shook his head. "She believes you are James' daughter. She was disappointed you were not his son."

"The entail," Elizabeth murmured.

"Precisely. She would have liked to have more men between Reverend Collins and Longbourn, I am afraid. Having James back in England should help."

_This is why she dislikes me_._ If she knew the truth . . ._ Elizabeth put a hand up to her forehead and asked a safer question. "I thought you said Mr. Collins was illiterate? He cannot be if he is a clergyman."

Her uncle shook his head. "No, his father was illiterate. His older brother also, as I recall. Both were taken by the grippe many years ago. As for the Reverend Josiah Collins, I have not heard from him since before Jane was born. As James is alive, there has been no reason to write."

It was a great deal to take in, and she returned to her own situation. "Your brother has never been married?"

There was a long hesitation before her uncle responded. "No."

Elizabeth's shock was so profound that she sat speechless for a time. As the confusion of her situation crashed over her, she tried to sort through all the questions she had. "And I am not a Bennet. Am I any relation to you at all, sir?"

Her uncle stood and walked to the window. "No."

She had expected this answer, but it was still a blow. Everything she knew had been cast into doubt with a single word. "Do I have a family?" She did not turn to look at him and he did not move away from the window.

"I cannot say," he replied.

This was not helpful. "You cannot say or you _will _not?" Uncle Bennet knew more than he was telling her. Why would he not simply explain?

"Elizabeth," he growled. "You will mind your manners."

Manners_? At a time like this, he is concerned about my manners?_ She swallowed her rising ire and stood. His back was still to her. Why would he not face her? "Is that really my name?"

"It is," he said with confidence. "You told the nurse. She did not ask for your surname as I had already told the servants that you were my brother's child."

"Did _she_ find me, then?"

There was an impatient release of air from her uncle. "No. _I _found you."

Elizabeth rubbed her temples. This did not make sense. Why would the nurse be the one to tell _him_ her name? If her uncle had found her, why would _he_ not have asked her name? Surely he would have wished to return her to her family. She was silent for a moment, and then asked, "Uncle, who am I? Where did I come from and why did you bring me here?"

Her uncle rubbed a closed fist over his ear. "Are you sure you wish to hear this, Elizabeth?"

Her breath came a little quicker. She squared her shoulders. "Yes."

He removed from his position at the window and gave her a weak smile. "The truth of it is, I do not know." He stood still as he spoke, one hand stroking his chin, his eyes turned up to the ceiling. "I was returning from a visit to a friend in another county. I had just exited the church when I saw a dirty, barefoot imp clambering up into my carriage. I was surprised, of course." He squeezed her hand. "You were so small, my coachman did not even see you."

"Why did you leave with me?"

"Well, I climbed in after you to have a chat, you see," her uncle replied with a faint smile, "but you had already hidden yourself in the storage box under the bench. I wondered why, so I glanced out the window and saw a man and a woman in a great hurry, looking up and down the street." Here he paused. "The man was holding a stout stick, and they were both very angry."

Her heart squeezed. "Were they my parents?"

"I drew the window coverings and lifted the seat. You flinched—you were so afraid, Elizabeth. I pointed them out and asked if they were your parents. You shook your head so hard I thought it might fall off." His blue eyes were stormy. "There were bruises around your wrists and your ankles. You had no shoes-your feet were bleeding. I was incensed on your behalf."

"If they were not my parents," Elizabeth inquired, "where is my family? Did you try to discover them?"

Uncle Bennet closed his eyes. "I believe that you were afraid of being returned to your parents, Lizzy. I think you denied them in order to get away."

"So I lied? They _were_ my mother and father?" No, this was not right. In her dreams, she was always afraid of being taken away. Certainly that would not be the case if those people had been her parents.

Uncle Bennet sighed. "You were four, Elizabeth, both very frightened and entirely exhausted. I would not blame you for the prevarication."

"You never made inquiries?" _You did not even remain a single day? Ask a few discreet questions?_

"I thought it best to remove you from the area."

_You thought it best?_ No, that was not fair. "Where was that area, uncle?"

He gazed at her, reproachful. "It is not important."

"It is important to me," she replied, thinking she might be able to take a trip there with the Gardiners, perhaps.

"I do not want you returning there, Elizabeth. You are not yet of age."

She pursed her lips. How did he know her thoughts?

"When we arrived at Longbourn," Uncle Bennet said, placing his hands on the mantle and leaning against the stone, "I told your aunt that you were James' child. She would never have accepted you otherwise." He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. "My brother had been reported missing. It seemed believable that his commanding officer would send any children to us for safety."

Something settled uncomfortably in Elizabeth's stomach. _He never returned to ask._

"When the maid came to request that we use one of Jane's dresses for you, she told me that you had been soundly beaten. I knew then I could not say anything. I could not risk your parents finding you and taking you back."

"Uncle," Elizabeth asked, trying to make sense of it all, "do you still have the dress I was wearing?" She anticipated seeing it, for it might tell her whether she was a gentleman's child. For surely, a gentleman's child would not have been chased by her parents, one wielding a stick. There might be some clue there to her origins—even after so many years, someone might recall the dress. Once she was of age, he would tell her where to visit, and she could take it there.

He straightened but still would not meet her eye. "No, Lizzy. I am afraid I do not."

Immediately following the interview, Lizzy changed into her half-boots and walked to the pasture behind the stables where Gwenny was grazing. Guinevere would keep her secrets. She always did.

_The Great North Road, August 1807_

The Rev. Josiah Collins removed a large linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead. He had not considered how very dry it would be on the road to Hertfordshire. He was hot, his clothes were covered in a thick layer of dust, and he had indigestion from the dreadful meal he had eaten at the Bear's Head Inn just past London in St. Alban's.

Collins' anger had propelled him into the small coach quite early this morning—he had barely remained long enough to pack a small trunk. The newspaper he had from London each day announced the long-awaited return of the 19th Light Dragoons, and James Bennet's name had been printed, clear as day, near the top of the list. The regiment had been in England for some time before the names were published, and the clergyman intended to inspect this reputed Bennet brother in person. For that, he needed a current direction. Thomas Bennet was certain to have it, and he would demand it.

He leaned back against the squabs in the stifling coach. They were no more than five miles from Meryton now, and he allowed his temper to boil over once again. Was it not enough that Thomas Bennet did not have the good grace to die? Bennet had held the estate for more than twenty years now, and Collins would be damned if he allowed this alleged Bennet brother to slip between him and his inheritance.

He would certainly not put it past Thomas Bennet to hire someone to pose as his heir. James Bennet had been gone from England for so long, who would even be able to identify the man? No, he would see this imposter with his own eyes and then take the issue to the courts. With the false James Bennet discredited, Thomas Bennet would then stand trial for fraud and there would be nobody remaining between him and his due. Even if, by some miracle, this man was James Bennet, he would not be able to prove it. Collins knew several judges. He was sure his suit would be successful.

His back ached, and he leaned forward to stretch. His chest began to tighten and his stomach turned over—he thought he might be ill. He rapped his walking stick on the ceiling of the coach, which lurched to the side of the road and came to a stop. The hired coachman jumped down to open the door, and Collins stumbled out. He felt a little short of breath as he gazed out along the low brown hills and green trees. The tightness spread up to his neck, then shot down one arm before it became suddenly, shockingly painful. He dropped to his knees.

The Rev. Josiah Collins heard the voice of the coachman crying out behind him. It was the last thing he ever heard.

_Vimeiro, August 1808_

Richard Fitzwilliam took a seat under a tree. He dumped a basin of tepid water over his head and dried his face with a mostly clean handkerchief. His body ached for a proper bath, his stomach for a good meal. He rubbed his head with both hands. He needed a shave. Maybe a haircut, too.

"Fitzwilliam!" someone cried. He glanced up at Turner.

"Have you seen Everly?"

He nodded. "Over with the general."

Turner thanked him and walked away.

_You could have been a barrister_, Richard told himself. It was what he had planned to do, what his father had suggested would suit him best. Life as a barrister, perhaps an MP one day. Uncle Darcy had offered him permanent rooms at his London townhouse while he studied and waited to be called to the bar. He might have had a bath and a hot meal every day had he wished.

But Richard had been angry for a very long time, and the law did not make the anger go away. Not like fighting. When he fought, he had a safe place to spend his rage against a world that would allow a small girl to be stolen away from her family. He did not wish to think what might have happened to keep her from appearing in London, if that had indeed ever been the plan. He dare not say he had never believed it. His family had suffered enough.

The kidnapping itself had not even been punished, not really. It was only a misdemeanor. Without a body, there was no proof of any other crime. What kind of law was that? Not one he could support.

It was his fault, and he felt it. Each of them had taken charge of a child that day and Ellie—fiery, trusting, mischievous Ellie—had been his responsibility. He should have followed her to the house. Should have . . . he did not know what. Thrown a rock, spooked the horse—something.

"Sir," a lieutenant said, interrupting his dark thoughts, "the general was asking for Haskell. Have you seen him?"

"Eating," he replied and motioned to the spot. The boy turned on his heel and was gone. Richard reached into his jacket to retrieve his brother's letter. He broke the seal with a flourish of one dirty hand.

Malcolm blamed himself too, was sickened by the notion that he had run to the house for reinforcements instead of chasing the rider. When he heard how close William had come to reaching their little cousin, something had broken inside him. Richard had seen it happen, the way his brother's face had paled, how he had leaned forward, his shoulders hunched together as though absorbing a blow. Malcolm, at eighteen, was in every way faster and stronger than eleven-year-old William. He could still hear Malcolm whisper: "I could have stopped him." It rang in Richard's ears when he slept. Fighting made it go away.

Malcolm was the heir to the earldom. He did not have the freedom to fight, and Richard knew it gnawed at him. He sighed and scanned the letter. His brother was to marry soon. Richard hoped it would help.

"Fitz!" came a yell from behind him. _What now?_ He turned his head. _This is the hazard of sitting still_. "What do you want, Jacobs?" he asked his long-time friend. The man appeared as exhausted as he was himself. There was a sooty bandage wound round his forearm.

"Have you seen Xavier?"

The thought came, unbidden: _Am I my brother's keeper?_ Richard pushed it away and considered the question he had been asked. "Xavier was with Taylor." The 20th had routed the French as they broke into the city, but then chased the retreating troops too far over the lines and been routed in their turn. They had lost many men on that part of the field. Taylor himself had not yet returned. "I have not seen him."

Jacobs pursed his lips and nodded before striding away.

Richard rubbed the letter between his thumb and forefinger, leaving a dark smudge on the paper. Even William, who had tried so hard to reach Ellie, who had nearly done it, had taken some of the blame upon himself. He had stood before Uncle Windham, white-faced and trembling, and confessed that he had told Ellie that her flower crown would look better with a dress. It was due to him that she had run back to the house with nobody but the nurse to accompany her.

Aunt Windham had tried to reassure them all—she had expected Ellie to want to change her clothing. Who would believe that such a man would be lurking so near the house, hidden among the trees? It was unthinkable. She did not blame them, not at all. His aunt and uncle had been all grace, all generosity in the face of such a devastating blow. He had seen them withdraw from society, even after the birth of their second daughter, heard his own mother weep for the loss of her goddaughter and niece. His anger grew, and his hand moved unconsciously to touch the hilt of the sword that lay beside him.

When Uncle Darcy had asked him to take on guardianship of Georgiana with William should anything happen to him, Richard had declined. He loved Georgiana, but he was not fit to be any girl's guardian. Malcolm had taken on the role instead. He wrote to Richard regularly, worry in every line. He was anxious for Richard on the battlefields of Portugal. He was anxious for William, who had taken on his father's role at Pemberley from nearly the moment he completed university. He was anxious for the Windhams, who were still recovering twelve years after the abduction of their eldest daughter.

Uncle Darcy had died last year, and William could barely be convinced to allow Georgiana to go to school. He wanted her to remain with him at Pemberley, but he could not establish himself effectively as the new master of the estate and also see adequately to her education. Malcolm wrote that William had reluctantly allowed her to go to London and attend the Great School in Bloomsbury so long as she could live with Lord and Lady Matlock. Even so, it was difficult to keep William from riding to London on the least pretense of business. He was thin and grave now, putting his own health at risk, Malcolm wrote.

Richard put the letter away and stood. It was time to begin compiling records of the lost and wounded. He would need to be on hand. He swiped at the back of his neck with the damp handkerchief and shoved it into his pocket_. Yes. I am my brother's keeper. I always have been._

They had been marked, all of them, by the events of a single day in 1796. Richard wondered if there was enough fighting in the world to ever make the pain of it go away.

_Oakleigh, February 1809_

Daniel Windham held the letter for a long time before he opened it. A separate piece of paper, with a brief message, written close, fell to the desk. He glanced first at the longer missive.

_ACCOUNT of the Behaviour, Confession, and Dying Words Of JACK LOVELL. Who was executed at NEWGATE for Burglary and other offenses on Wednesday; January 11, 1809._

He shoved it aside and read the accompanying letter.

_Dear Sir,_

_It is a part of my calling to hear the confessions of such prisoners of Newgate who have repented before they meet Our Saviour, and this prisoner did extract a promise, that I should send it to you once he was dead. I shall now consider my duty complete. _

_I am heartily sorry for your daughter's loss and shall pray for you and her._

_Yours in faith,_

_The Rev. Harold Greene_

Windham fingered the page but could not read it. He knew Ellie was dead. He did not think himself strong enough to read precisely how her end had come, nor would he ever forgive the men responsible, regardless of any final contrition. He considered burning the confession but could not bring himself to destroy it any more than he could exert himself to read it. He folded Greene's letter over the statement of guilt and shoved them both in the back of a drawer.

_London, March 1809 _

_**Married.**_ _At London, Lord _**_Malcolm Fitzwilliam, the Viscount Milton_**_, to _**_Lady Penelope Hill, daughter of Lord_**_ Henry Attingham of _**_Shropshire._**

_Oakleigh Manor, August 1809_

Mercy Windham pounded up the stairs, making as much noise as she could possibly manage. Nobody loved her, and here was proof. She had worked so hard on that horrible pianoforte piece and nobody cared. She had played it perfectly—twice—but they did not even listen. Mama was sad again, and her brothers and Papa were focusing their attention on her.

Mama was always sad this time of year. John told her it used to be worse, but Mercy did not care. Papa, Mama, even Robert preferred the absent Ellie to her, even though nobody had seen her since she was four. John only liked her better because he was too young to remember their older sister. It was infuriating to constantly be compared to a ghost. Mercy did not look like her mother—not like Ellie. She did not like to climb trees or play with the boys. Not like Ellie. She could not stop her mother's tears. Only Ellie could do that.

_It is too much_, she told herself, fuming as she prepared to slam the door to her chambers. Instead, she stopped to stare at the old nursery at the end of the hall, near her parents' chambers. She hesitated only for a moment before she stomped her way to the room, throwing open the door with enough force to send it crashing into the wall. She stormed inside, where a girl's doll and two little red leather shoes sat in pride of place on a shelf set against a clean white wall. The doll had mocked her all her life—sitting up on that shelf, looking down at her, telling her she would never be loved the way her parents' other daughter was loved. There was no way to destroy the shoes, but that doll . . .

She ran to the shelf, grabbed the doll by its legs, and swung it against the wall. The face cracked. Mercy slammed it against the wall again and again, sending pieces of the gessoed plaster flying. She began to sob. She hated Ellie. Hated her. She might have been screaming. She could not tell.

"Mercy," came a breathless voice from the doorway. Mama lifted her hands to her mouth. Mercy turned, her cheeks awash with tears. The doll fell to the floor.

Mama's expression was deeply pained. Mercy was sorry she had hurt her mother, but she was not sorry she had broken the doll. If she had been able to throw away the shoes, she would have done that, too. They had a hold on her family that she could not understand and would never accept.

"What have you done?" Robert asked, horrified, brushing past Mama as he entered the room. He picked up the doll and cradled it in his hands. "It is ruined," he said to no one in particular. "Mercy, how could you?"

She shook her head and shrugged. "I . . ." Mercy glanced up to Mama and saw that Papa had arrived. He stood behind Mama and placed his hands on her shoulders. John stood beside them, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. She rubbed her arm over her face and sniffed.

Her father and brothers stood in silent judgment, just as everyone always did. She felt her lower lip sliding out and she crossed her arms over her chest. Having gone this far, Mercy was determined to see this through. At the last moment, she refrained from stamping her foot. "She is never coming back and we all know it," she insisted. If it sounded spiteful, she could not help that. _You _have_ a daughter_, she wanted to add, but even in her fury, she knew better than to say it.

Papa's eyes were full of fire, and she could tell he was about to order her to his study. Before he could move, however, Mama patted one of his hands and said, "Mercy is correct."

She blinked. Mama agreed with her? She knew that Robert did not—even now he was glowering at her. He had never liked her anyway. She was too young for him and he believed himself too important to spend time with her. It had pleased her to anger him the way he angered her, but Papa had long ago put a stop to her retaliations.

"I will never give up hope that Elizabeth will come home again," Mama said quietly, "but Robert is beginning his second year at Cambridge soon. Wherever she is now, she is nearly grown. I have given her things more importance than they ought to have. Not false idols, but . . ." She stopped speaking to catch her breath.

"Maria." Papa kissed the top of Mama's head and a few more tears slid down Mercy's cheeks. "We shall do whatever you prefer, my love."

Mama stepped over to the shelf to remove the little shoes. She touched them gently, then stroked Mercy's hair back from her face. Then she held out her hand for the doll. Robert handed it over with some reluctance.

"Thank you, dear," she told Robert. Then she turned to Mercy. "I am not pleased with what you have done, my child," she said firmly. "However, I believe I understand." She glanced down at the items in her hands. "We all mourn Elizabeth, Mercy," she said softly, "but you have always been our little girl—and that will never change."

Mercy threw her arms around Mama's waist and hugged her tightly. After a moment, she felt her father's hand on her back and she released her hold. Her mother opened the child's wardrobe and set the shoes and the broken doll inside. Then she closed it again and turned to leave the room, Robert and John in her wake.

Mercy pressed her lips together and swallowed hard.

"You will join me in my study, daughter," Papa said sternly, his eyes dark and forbidding. "Now."

_Meryton, September 1809 _

It was time. Thomas Bennet held out his arm and led Elizabeth to her first dance. Her hair was curled and pinned up in a sophisticated style, and she was wearing a dress that clearly demonstrated she was no longer a little girl. He had presented her with a necklace in honor of the event, a thin gold chain with a single pearl like the one he had given Jane for her come-out. His wife's lips had flattened into a frown when she saw it, but Fanny said nothing, and he had simply ignored her.

Jane had come out at eighteen, too. He sighed just a little. In four years that would doubtless pass more quickly than they should, little Mary would make her entrance into society and his work as their father would be near its end. He loved each of the girls, though he admitted that the thoughts and motivations of women were still something of a mystery to him. Where he once might have mocked them as being silly, though, he could now admit the failing was his own.

She was beautiful tonight, his little girl. Her chestnut curls bounced as she skipped through the steps, her dark eyes lit with excitement, cheeks rosy with exertion, her skin soft and smooth, her lips a perfect red bow.

As he moved through the dance, he felt his age. His left leg was a little stiff, his right shoulder a bit tender. Still, he smiled at the young woman who had changed his life, and when she smiled back, a wide, unaffected smile, his heart felt light.

Later, as he watched her dance with one partner after another, he hoped there would be no suitors just yet. Elizabeth knew she was not his niece, but he was not yet prepared to explain that story to anyone else.

Mr. and Mrs. Bingley were speaking with his wife. When Elizabeth was led over after a set, Jane took her cousin's hands and leaned over to kiss her cheek. Jane was a kind and loving creature, to be sure, and the loveliest of all the girls—but Thomas had not missed the gentle superiority of an older sister certain of her own infallibility. In June, that belief had only been strengthened with her marriage to a wealthy man a generation or two from trade whom she had met, quite by chance, at a ball in London. He had leased Netherfield during their courtship and the two were living there now. Jane's dowry, five-thousand pounds with the promise of another twenty-five hundred upon her mother's death, was modest for a man whose two sisters had twenty-thousand each, but Bingley had declared himself in love and asked for Jane's hand six months after their first meeting. This had evidently convinced his eldest that she was an expert on courtship and marriage.

Expert, he thought, and chuckled to himself. The two of them were so complying with one another they had probably not even yet had their first disagreement. They were far from experts on the married state.

He strolled over to his family and watched as Elizabeth was met by her next partner. Jane smiled at him. "She is a great success, Papa, just as we predicted."

"Yes," he agreed. "She is beautiful and so very grown-up. That gown fairly shimmers in the candlelight. You were very generous to take your cousin to the dressmaker for it."

"Perhaps we only wished she would not turn up quite as dusty as usual tonight," Bingley said with a friendly laugh.

"Oh, she was covered in dirt and straw before Mama and I insisted it was time to bathe," Jane replied, her eyes sparkling. "She was out of doors with Gwenny for hours."

Bingley shook his head in good-natured commiseration with his wife.

Thomas' mood turned. The poor girl was probably nervous. Speaking to that horse was her way of calming herself in the face of trials. He felt a flicker of irritation but spoke calmly. "The bond she has with that horse is astonishing."

The Bingleys just looked at him, bemused.

"If you are very lucky, a bond like that may happen once in a lifetime," he informed them. "It is not something to be ridiculed."

"Has it ever happened to you, Papa?" Jane asked.

"No," he replied, his annoyance flaring when the couple gave each other an affectionate, knowing look.

Then Fanny was back, and he stepped away. He should be a bigger man, but he was looking forward to that first argument. For just a moment, he hoped it would be a typhoon.

_Pemberley, March 1811_

"I do not understand why I must remain with our aunt and uncle, Brother," Georgiana complained. "If I am old enough to leave school, why am I not old enough to have my own establishment?"

Fitzwilliam Darcy shook his head. "You are not yet sixteen, Georgiana, and Aunt Matlock has invited you to stay with her. She will escort you about town as is appropriate and help you prepare for your coming-out. Matlock House is grander and better situated than any rooms you might have in town, and you shall come to join me at Pemberley in the summer with our cousins." He put away his pen and sanded the letter he had just finished.

"My coming-out is two years away, brother. I have accomplished every task you have set out for me, and I have done well, have I not?" Her expression spoke of anticipation.

Darcy set his letter aside and smiled at his sister. "You know I can find no fault with your accomplishments, Georgie."

"Am I not to be trusted, then?" she persisted.

He winced. It was not her he mistrusted, it was the world about them. "Georgiana, you are a young woman who will have a significant fortune upon marriage. It is not safe for you to have your own establishment."

Georgiana sat on the settee before the fireplace. He could see her shoulders slump a bit, and he felt like an ogre. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to provide for his sister, but it was his job to protect her and she would not live on her own with naught but a slightly older woman to maintain propriety. If that was what it took to assure her safety, then an ogre he would be.

"I suppose," he said, relenting, "that I could get away long enough for us to make a visit to Ramsgate, if you are so set upon it. It shall not be the entire summer," he warned her, "but perhaps a month?"

"Thank you, Brother," she said in a small voice.

Clearly, she was disappointed. Why was she in such a hurry to grow up? "Georgiana," he said quietly, "you know the story of the Windhams."

She placed her hands in her lap and frowned. "Please, not that story again, brother."

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Every time I wish to do something on my own," she told him petulantly, "I am told that story. It was awful, of course, but_ we_ have no relations in need of funds. It has little to do with me."

His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. "I thank you for those words, sister."

Georgiana peered up at him, questioning his response while he concentrated on controlling his temper.

"Your cold dismissal of the pain that event caused and the lesson the story teaches," he said at last, "has demonstrated precisely why you are too young to be trusted on your own. If a child can be plucked from her family twenty feet from the entrance to her home in Derbyshire, I would be a fool to set you up entirely on your own in London."

Georgiana stood abruptly. "I am no child, Fitzwilliam," she insisted angrily.

Darcy thought his sister might have stamped her foot would it not have further proven his point. "Your lack of compassion for Elizabeth Windham and her family—for _our_ family, says otherwise. I am willing to chaperone you to Ramsgate, but you shall not be left unattended."

Georgiana stroked her skirt once, twice, then stood and exited the study without a word.


End file.
